


when the pig is proffered, hold up the poke

by crateofkate



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crateofkate/pseuds/crateofkate
Summary: “See, Witcher, nothing to worry about,” Henfrey says quietly. “Julian is very expensive, as he should be, but he’s also the best at hosting these types of… parties.”---Nearly a year after they parted ways on the mountain, Geralt’s path intersects Jaskier’s once more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 236





	when the pig is proffered, hold up the poke

_Jak dają, to bierz_

* * *

With an audible squelch Geralt pulled his sword free of the basilisk’s skull, the splatter of brains and blood splashing down into the mud as the beast finally stopped twitching. It’s stomach contents were strewn from one side of the cave to the next, viscera that he’d avoided the worst of, nothing a quick dip in the stream wouldn’t fix. With practiced ease, he pried the mouth open, milking each of the great fangs in turn before ripping them free of yellow gums. 

The contract had taken him only a few hours west of Ellander, where Lord Henfrey had caught wind he was passing through and tasked him with the slaying of the draconid, with the promise of a heavy purse and a room to rest for the night. Where he normally would’ve refused the offer of lodgings, even he could tell a night out of the wilds was becoming necessary, his reactions slowed enough that even with a healthy dose of Cat, he’d nearly lost his head to the great beast. Two months since he’d left Kaer Morhen, and not allowing himself to take refuge indoors was weighing on him. He hadn’t felt so sleep deprived since -

Geralt cast aside the thought as quickly as it’d appeared, for that way lay madness, dozens of choices that would shape the remainder of his pitiful life, forks in the road that had led him here, with only his horse for company. 

The trudge back to Roach took half as much time compared to the trek up the mountainside. She was right where he’d left her, grazing away on the sweet grass, his pack strapped to her side, and he contemplated pausing there for the remainder of the night. He could set up camp and build a fire, content himself with provisions from his bag, maybe even hunt a rabbit. It would be the excuse he needed, he thought, if he returned in the morning instead, to wave off the room and collect his fee quickly, enabling his return to the Path post haste. 

As fast as the idea slid over his mind, he dismissed it. A night in a bed would do him well, a reprieve from the mud of the rainy season. Roach too could use a night in the stable, a soft pile of hay to rest her head upon, without the need to be on alert for monsters, both beast and man. 

He removes his boots and wades into the river up to his knees, rubbing the stinking guts from his pant legs. Maybe it was time to venture back into civilization, even if only for a day or two. Buy himself some company, or a warm bath, or perhaps even both. A voice in the back of his mind that he refused to acknowledge, named him a cad and a coward, despite the truth of the matter than a simple drink in a tavern had been what had thrown him into destiny’s crosshairs to begin with. 

The setting sun has fully dipped behind the hills long before he reaches the opulent estate of Lord Henfrey. He leaves Roach in the care of a young stablehand, with instructions to brush and feed her and have her ready to leave at first light. He makes his way across the courtyard to the servants entrance as instructed. An old woman answers after the third knock, and wordlessly escorts him to a grandiose sitting room, clearly decorated without regard for practicality or comfort, but instead to make a statement.

The maid assures him Henfrey will be along shortly, as he is currently attending to other guests, but instructs him to make himself comfortable while he waits, before running from the room like a wolf was snapping at her heels. 

Geralt settles in a chair close to the hearth, closing his eyes and casting out his senses. He can indeed pick up a gathering at the end of the corridor, twenty, perhaps twenty five men crowded together in a single room. He can hear gasps and heavy breathing, the slap of flesh telling him exactly what sort of get-together Henfrey is hosting. 

It’s not too long before Henfrey himself arrives, clad only an open doublet and linen breeches, feet bare. The man himself is nothing special, no distinguishing features, greying hair pushing back from his forehead with perspiration and the redness of too much wine in his cheeks. 

“Witcher! I hadn’t expected you back so soon.”

“The basilisk was not hard to track, and a juvenile,” Geralt says, opening the purse at his hip to extract the two long fangs. “I’ll have my fee now.”

“Splendid, absolutely outstanding. I’ve a room prepared for you in the servants quarters, and instructions to have a hot meal set aside for your arrival. Melly ought to be back to fetch you momentarily, I had to send her on a quick errand, but,” Henfrey walks past him to the desk and pulls out a small cloth bag, clinking with coin, “as agreed. Your reputation precedes you.”

Henfrey continues to blather on but Geralt has stopped listening. He’s caught a particular scent coming from his hands, a scent he knows in his bones, the smell of - 

_Jaskier_.

Jaskier’s sweat, his _tears_ , and suddenly he can place one of the noises coming from down the hall, he’s heard it enough times from the other side of the camp, late at night, or from the adjoining room, and Geralt goes tearing out of the room without pause, the speed of a Witcher allowing his feet to practically _fly_ , and he crashes through the ornate double doors expecting the worst, his hand already reaching for the sword still on his back. 

Instead, he has his breath completely stolen from his lungs because - 

Jaskier is _there_ and it’s been eight damned months since that clusterfuck on the mountain with Yennefer and the dragon, where he bit out words that were all bark and no bite, but they wounded _anyways_ , and Jaskier is his _friend,_ but sometimes the bard doesn’t know or doesn’t _care_ that he’s prodding at bruises he should let be, and an injured wolf will always gnash at the hand that reaches for it. It’s its nature.

Geralt has spent eight cold months replaying that day over in his head, thinking of different words and coming up with a thousand ways he could’ve made it down the mountain with Jaskier still by his side but - 

He can’t go back and change it, and the hurt and distress that radiated off Jaskier has been burnt into his nose ever since, he knows those smells now the way he knows Roach and his leathers and autumn leaves. 

None of those are what he smells right now, which is the only reason he lowers his hand back to his side instead of taking his swords to the forms of the two dozen nude men in masks that have Jaskier surrounded in a semicircle, all of them in various states of arousal. 

He’s seen Jaskier in many states over their twenty years of acquaintance, bleeding and rumpled and running for his life but never, nothing could have prepared him for _this._

Jaskier is suspended mid-air by a series of ropes, artfully crisscrossed and looped around his chest and thighs, down to his ankles and back up around his calves, trussed up like a present and - 

Geralt knows the smell of Jaskier scared and in pain and he smells _none of that._

What he smells now is desire, thick and heady like incense, Jaskier’s own and two dozen others, bleeding together in a haze so thick he can practically see it, so potent he’s almost choking on the taste. 

And Lord Henfrey comes up behind him, having caught up at last, and _chuckles,_ dares to pat him on the shoulder, murmurs “I see you found this evening's entertainment. Pretty thing, isn’t he? We’re quite lucky to have contracted his services _._ ”

Henfrey strolls over to Jaskier, who is blindfolded and currently being rocked back and forth between two men, two _cocks_ , one deep into his throat, the other up his ass, and gently strokes his cheek. Jaskier releases the cock from his mouth to gasp for air, leaning into the touch and the praise with a contented purr.

“He’s fully consenting, of course, aren’t you pet?”

Jaskier gasps “Yes yes please, I need-” and Henfrey stops the babble by sliding two fingers in his mouth.

“We have an unexpected guest that seems concerned, can you tell him your stopping words and assure him of your willing participation?” Henfrey asks, but of course Jaskier can’t, his mouth is _full_. 

Henfrey retreats backwards, and with his mouth empty again Geralt hears a gasped “mountain” and “More, please” and then Jaskier finds his mouth full of cock again and Geralt can practically see his eyes rolling back into his head, blindfold be damned, as the two men reestablish their rhythm. 

“See, Witcher, nothing to worry about,” Henfrey says quietly. “Julian is very expensive, as he should be, but he’s also the best at hosting these types of… parties.”

Geralt can’t take his eyes off Jaskier, from the saliva and come that drips from his red mouth as his first partner finishes with a grunt, and the wetness that trails from his eyes but it’s true, all his senses confirm that Jaskier is loving every moment. The man behind him suddenly freezes, and Geralt can smell another flood of seed being released. He swallows thickly because this is his, his _friend_ , and seeing him like this shouldn’t cause the lick of arousal that’s unfurling deep within his belly. He should turn around and walk back into the night and forget he’d ever seen Jaskier, forget the whole damned evening but-

“Well then. I had called for some company to be sent your way, but perhaps you’d like to claim your bonus in another way, hm?” And Henfrey, he gestures at _Jaskier_ , who’s front half is being lowered by a series of pulleys to rest on a chaise, but his legs and ass are still suspended in the air, swaying forwards and back slightly as Jaskier tries to reposition himself, cheek rubbing against the velvet of the lounger and making the softest of sounds. Someone emerges from the crowd with a goblet of water and gently tips his head backwards, allowing Jaskier to take small sips. Geralt hears his sigh of contentment and another man steps forwards with small slices of orange, hand feeding him and rubbing the juice all around Jaskier’s mouth, only to lick it up after each bite.

Geralt tells his feet to pivot, to walk out of the room, fuck the contract and fuck the fee, but instead he finds himself slowly stepping forward, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and Henfrey returns to his post by Jaskier’s head, twirling stands of his hair through stubby fingers. “We’ve an unexpected guest tonight, pretty boy, and he’s done me a great service. Might you allow him a turn?”

Jaskier, who after over twenty years still hasn’t developed a lick of self preservation, nods as best he can. “Yes, yes of course, anything, I trust you to pick,” which absolutely breaks Geralt in half, cleaved down the center from scalp to groin. Would Jaskier agree so quickly if he knew what monster lay at his feet, ready to devour him, if he knew _who_?

In all the years he’s known the bard, the seasons spent travelling side by side, the glimpses he’s caught of him in various states of debauchery and undress, he’s never seen him displayed like this, and while he might not be human any longer, he’s still a man, a wolf, and he _wants._

But Henfrey must sense his hesitance, his apprehension because he bends low to whisper in Jaskier’s ear, “Lovely boy, I think your new admirer is feeling a touch of the nerves, mayhaps your talented tongue could settle him?” 

Jaskier, damn him, gasps out “Oh please good sir, Tomis trusts you and thus do I, I am bereft and empty, and only the finest of pricks could ever think to fill the vacancy inside, please sir please, or I shall weep that you have denied me the pleasure I so desire.”

And Geralt is but a man under the steel and silver and leather, and his thoughts slam to an abrupt halt as he finds himself reaching out a gloved hand to touch, lightly skimming a finger down the bard’s hip and Jaskier _keens_ , just from that light caress and Geralt is _weak._

The presence of the eyes of the crowd on his back falls away, as do the whispers of apprehension, the snippets of “is Tomis _mad_?” and “a Witcher, how unexpected,” and “not sure I want a turn with a whore tainted by mutant seed,” but then that too falls away until all he can see touch hear smell feel is Jaskier, Jaskier his friend his companion, his- 

Not his, never his, he burned that bridge, cast the fire by his own hand and watched it go up in flames and heat, nothing left but ash and regret. 

But how did the words go? _He was weak, love, and wanting_ , and he’s not a simpleton, _Lambert_ , he knows what that song is about, who and why and it’s every reason he should be _walking away_ but Jaskier is close enough that he can feel the heat from his skin, even through his clothes, and the bard’s words have turned into an endless prattle of “please please so good, you'll treat me so well, I'll love it I promise,” and-

His hands drift to his laces and his heart is thundering in his chest, as well as it can, as he plucks at the ties and tries to remember how to breathe. Geralt reaches in one hand, still gloved and grips himself tightly, two quick squeezes to push back the edge of pleasure just from the sightsmell of Jaskier, laid out like a feast that he’s somehow managed an invite to. 

He pulls himself from his breeches and pushes Jaskier’s knees apart, as far as they’ll go, staring a the pucker of his hole, red and puffy from overuse, dripping the seed of countless men down his inner thighs to the floor, a puddle he carefully avoids with his boots. As gently as he can, because he is a beast but he’s not a _monster_ , he pushes two fingers _inside, he’s inside Jaskier’s body,_ and it’s hot and soft and loose and ready. 

With a single focused push he slides in, _home_ , and it’s perfect, absolutely divine, a truly religious experience and Jaskier _keens_ , a wordless string of noise without substance, and Geralt can smell fresh tears but no pain, no regret or discomfort or misery. 

He slides both hands up Jaskier’s thighs to take root on his hips, pushing leather digits into flesh, five points on either side, watching as the skin goes white from pressure, and he’s suddenly desperate to leave marks behind. Maybe Jaskier will never know from who, but they’ll follow him from this night just the same, ten brands the same size and distance as Geralt's fingertips.

This was a terrible idea but it’s too late to turn back now, he couldn’t if he tried because nothing, not the quim of any number of anonymous whores or even the clench of Yennefer’s own sopping cunt had ever fit to his cock the way Jaskier’s ass stretched to accommodate him, and maybe it was the dozen who’d already paved the way that evening but probably it was just because it was Jaskier.

“Yes yes yes you’re beautiful you’re perfect you feel divine darling, more please please move,” Jaskier cries, and it Geralt spurs into action, short, uneven thrusts as he plants his feet and finds a rhythm, and the ropes, oh, the ropes. They mean he barely needs to move his hips, he can use the suspensions to move Jaskier up and down his cock as he pleases, all the exertion being poured into where his hands bruise into Jaskier’s hips. 

He tests the limits of his patience and Jaskier’s own endurance, never allowing a consistent pattern in his movements to emerge, never allowing for Jaskier to adjust to any one pace, alternating between quick and slow, hard and soft, long controlled thrusts and grinding little jerks where he barely moves at all. Suspended as he was, Jaskier could contribute nothing but his voice, the words from before now only an incoherent stream of vowels as he pressed his face into the chaise, his bound wrists flexing and his hands grasping at air with the need to hold something, _anything_ , but Geralt had all the control and it was celestial, earth shattering, his whole being was remade by the clench of the body he was mounted on, and with no build up, suddenly he was coming. 

It wasn’t lightning, he’d experienced lightning, this was _more_ , _transcendent_ , _holy_ , energy pulsing up from his balls and out his cock in thick, endless spurts, from his spine to his beastly eyes, a light show to rival the brightest Ignii ever cast. 

With a grunt he pulled back, his cock springing free with a splatter of come that splashed to the floor and the world, where he was, who he was surrounded _by_ came back in a rush so loud it was like a thunderclap in his ears, and Jaskier, _Jaskier_ , was opening sobbing and he wanted to reach out and comfort, he thought he’d been so _careful_ , he’d caused Jaskier to _hurt_ , but. While the scent of discomfort had joined all the rest, it wasn’t true _distress_ , and somehow only then did Geralt notice that Jaskier’s own cock was tied up as pretty as the rest of him, with silk ribbons instead of rope, a neat little bow around his balls, preventing him from finding his own release, keeping him ready for the next man, to be used over and over.

Violence suddenly raged within him, hot and sour and masking the shame of what he’d done, and all he wanted was to finish what he’d started when he entered this room, to cut down every last masked man, to whisk Jaskier away somewhere safe, to keep him hale and healthy and away from prying eyes forever more. 

His hand trembled with the effort to not reach for his sword, instead briskly returning his softening prick back into his trousers as he spun on his heel and strode from the room, ignoring the scoffs and jeers, the call of “Witcher, you haven’t had your full payment yet, wait in the-” but he didn’t care. Geralt allowed his feet to carry him down the hall and out to the courtyard, back to where he’d left Roach, the stablehand jumping aside as he caught the snarl on the Witcher's face. Without pause, he swung her tack back on and climbed up onto the mare’s back. He kicked his heels, urging her forward with a snap of the reins and a wordless command, into the black of the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://crateofkate.tumblr.com/) \- come watch me scream into the void


End file.
